


Dream Casting

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables RPF, West End RPF
Genre: First Kiss, Les Misérables (10th Anniversary) Concert, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 13:57:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8251574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Colm and Philip meet over the rehearsals for the Les Mis 10th Anniversary concert. Sparks fly.





	

Colm had read the book, many years ago, back when he was first offered Valjean. It had taken a long time and he only admitted to Trevor many years later that he hadn’t read the whole thing. He’d skipped Waterloo, the sewers, a lot about the boys on the barricade. He’d never needed to understand their motivation, anyway; it was there, in black and white for anyone who wanted to see it and the show made it pretty clear to even the slowest spectator. No, he’d focused on the others, on Fantine and Cosette, on Javert and of course on Jean Valjean. All four of those characters, more fleshed out and more interesting, made up the entirety of Jean Valjean’s world and so they were the centre of Colm’s world too, at least to begin with. It was ten years later now and he’d played Valjean for so long that it would take something pretty spectacular to impress him now.

 

Well, the joke ended up being on him, for sure; he hadn’t expected Philip Quast to blow in with the wind.

 

He remembered the first day of the rehearsals, how this Australian giant sidled into the room and quietly took a chair at the back of the room. He’d never met Quast before but he knew of him, had heard him on tape, seen a photo of him in costume. None of that prepared him for how big the guy was; he had to be well over six foot because he towered over Michael at the door, and he looked strong with it, burly and well built. Colm had seen blokes like that before and every single one of them had been a brawler, the ones who picked fights in pubs back in Ireland. Colm knew the type, from a few skirmishes back in his youth and always losing. That hadn’t stopped him trying though.

 

But Philip – he didn’t seem to be like that, if his creeping in was normal for him. He seemed to fold in on himself, to make himself smaller. Colm wanted to tell him to stop, to stand and sit tall, to make the most of what he had. Perhaps he would, when he’d got the measure of him.

 

There wasn’t much to rehearse for that concert, not in terms of movement anyway, so they were free for once to really focus on the music. At that first rehearsal, they really only introduced themselves, spoke to one another and discussed the staging. Philip’s voice was soft when he stood to introduce himself but it was a deep, clear soft and he gave a little twitch of the lips that seemed to be a smile. He got a bit lost in the exuberance of the youngsters, but Colm found his eyes drawn to him again and again. He was so still, watchful, when most actors he had met tended to vibrate with an irresistible energy. If he had been chosen for this embarrassingly titled ‘Dream Cast’, he must be something special. Colm found he was very much looking forwards to discovering what that was.

 

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. At the next rehearsal, Philip took his place beside him at the microphone for the prologue and, when Javert’s first line came, Colm had to turn and check Philip had sung it, because it was as though the man had slipped his skin and donned another. Here was Javert beside him, upright and confident, with a smooth, deep baritone that sounded like something from another world. 

 

That first rehearsal was a revelation; he’d never seen an actor change bodily to quite the extent that Philip did that day and, after Javert’s suicide, not a single person said a word for almost a minute.

 

“That was something else, mate,” Colm whispered, clapping a hand on Philip’s shoulder, “Brilliant.”

 

“Thanks,” Philip blushed and looked down at his hands. He did that a lot.

 

During the finale, Colm glanced back at Philip perched awkwardly on a too small chair and felt a pang. He’d never thought much about Javert not appearing at the end but like this, seeing Philip there alone with only the Thenardiers, it actually bothered him. It didn’t seem fair somehow, for the character or for the actor playing him. Maybe he’d mention it one day, if he ever played Valjean on the stage again, not that it seemed likely now.

 

The rehearsal at the Royal Albert Hall, the first dress rehearsal, was a new kind of excellent. Colm had engineered it so he would share a dressing room with Philip; it helped that the hall didn’t have that many of the damn things and, anyway, he’d had a quick word with the company manager before anyone else arrived. When Colm arrived, Philip was already there, being put into his wig and sideburns. Colm had it pretty easy for that show, allowed to have his own hair for the whole thing, so all he really needed was a hairbrush and some makeup. Philip was sitting patiently – no surprise – as the wiggies flitted around him, making last minute adjustments, and he thanked them sincerely when they left. He had a lot of class, this guy. A lot.

 

“Do they get itchy?” Colm asked, gesturing at the sideburns. They had a reddish tinge that he hadn’t seen on a Javert before. He liked it.

 

“Sometimes,” Philip touched them carefully and smiled, “I think it’s the glue. It would probably be better for my skin just to have grown my own.”

 

It was the most words Philip had said at the same time and Colm felt a glow in his stomach as he turned to his own mirror. He was breaking through. Slowly but surely.

 

As soon as Philip stepped into his costume, Colm thought he understood the feeling in his chest. He never had been able to much resist the sight of a good looking man in a uniform. It was amazing really; he’d liked Roger alright, and some of the other guys who had played Javert opposite him, but they weren’t a patch on Philip, looks or voice wise. As far as Colm could remember, Philip was the most Javert-like of them all. Well, almost. The Javert of the book had been frightening to look upon, not a nice sight at all. Philip was far too handsome, and Colm knew he wasn’t alone in thinking that. As he followed him onto the stage, admiring the view from the back, he realised that all eyes had turned to look at Philip. Even out of costume, Colm had privately concluded that Philip was the best looking of anyone in the whole cast, and that included the young guys. Hell, it even included the girls. Colm thought that if he had told Philip that, he’d only blush and try to escape. He was entirely, endearingly oblivious to what everyone thought of him. 

 

Colm had heard a story about Philip’s first audition, about how he went for Enjolras and then threw a fit when he couldn’t read the music. It was such a temper that he was called back for Javert. On any other actor, such a reaction would have been a warning sign, an indicator of a sense of entitlement that was dangerous as hell. But with Philip, it just felt different. He was shy, almost painfully, and so self-conscious that it was no surprise he acted so when he was embarrassed. Colm had never suffered any struggle for his art, never felt anything but happy and secure in front of an audience, and he’d never given much thought to anyone who might feel differently. Here though, he wanted to help this man, in whatever way he could. So he smiled and nodded his encouragement, clapped him on the shoulder and slowly Philip began to react to him, to relax, until he was almost smiling. And now, here they were, sharing a dressing room and almost friends.

 

The dress rehearsal went almost without a hitch. They had one more run through tomorrow morning and then on in the evening. Colm was buzzing, ready for anything, but Philip withdrew into himself once more and left without a word to anyone. Colm knew though, exactly the problem. He’d figured it out.

 

“It’s 'Stars', isn’t it?” he asked the next afternoon, as they donned the costumes, “The thing that worries you?”

 

Philip didn’t do him the indignity of lying to him. The last run-through, with a broken note that had left Philip looking mortified, was all the evidence that he needed.

 

“Yeah. Always has been.”

 

“You know you knock it out of the park, don’t you?”

 

“Do I?”

 

It was hard to believe, but Colm realised that Philip didn’t actually know. He didn’t even realise how good he actually was.

 

“Why do you think you’re even here?”

 

“Someone had to be.”

 

“You great tosser,” Colm laughed, “You total moron. You’re the best. Cam wouldn’t have wanted you if you weren’t the best.”

 

Before he knew what was happening, Philip was on his feet and across the room, pulling Colm up and looking down at him with an expression Colm had never seen before. Colm tried to speak but found he could not, pinned by the look in Philip’s eyes and the press of his body, so close that he could crane his neck and kiss him, if he wanted to. The thought was stark, not at all what he was expecting, and he felt himself blush.

 

“You mean it, don’t you?” Philip said eventually, his voice a whisper, “What you said?”

 

“I did. I do.”

 

And then Philip kissed him, lips light as a feather and pressed to Colm’s brow, and good lord, the man was trembling when he pulled away.

 

“I don’t hear that much,” Philip murmured, and his sharp intake of breath sounded sweet as Colm reached for his hand, wrapping his fingers around Philip’s longer ones. Not to be outdone in whatever this bizarre moment was, Colm stood on his toes and brushed his own lips against Philip’s ear.

 

“Well, you have now,” he breathed, squeezing the hand, “Just look at me out there, and you’ll remember.”

 

There was a knock at the door, announcing the arrival of make-up, and when Colm called them in, he was pleased that he sounded entirely nonchalant to his own ears, and that Philip wasn’t too red. Colm did not look at his roommate whilst the others were in the room, forcing his heart rate to settle and his mind to clear. You never could tell with theatre types. That was a rule he had learned early on his career, when more than one burly older actor, usually married, had come onto him in a dressing room. Theirs was a lonely job after all; long, long hours away from your family and the people who loved you. In the end, a lot of people broke, and very few people in the profession could blame them. What was a strange almost-kiss between friends? Philip was lucky that make-up had come in; Colm would probably have jumped him if they’d been alone for much longer.

 

As soon as make-up left, Colm knew that whatever it was that had happened, Philip was already thinking too much about it. He could not make eye contact but, just as Colm was despairing that he had lost a new friend just as soon as he had made him, Philip reached over and took his hand. He held on like a drowning man and Colm let him. They did not speak. The silence had already said enough.

 

Later on, though, during the show, Colm allowed himself to grasp Philip’s hand, just for a second, before he stood for 'Stars', and fancied that the other man sang it the best he had heard from him. When Philip took his seat, the applause deafening, he allowed his knee to brush Colm’s and ventured a small, tight smile.

 

Oh yes, Colm thought wistfully, the warmth soaking through his trousers where their knees touched, you never could tell.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by J.


End file.
